


if you're wondering if i want you to (i want you to)

by freckledshoulderblades



Category: One Piece
Genre: F/M, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Slow Burn, Swearing, engine work, gender neutral reader, he is Not Smooth At All, i'm bullshitting my way through the medical junk, just a few hospital scenes, law is so awkward and i love him for it, law needs a hug immediately, reader is prone to injuring themselves with the best intentions, sad touch starved boy, sorry y'all i know math not how to fix bodies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25433713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckledshoulderblades/pseuds/freckledshoulderblades
Summary: “There’s a reason we’re in this mess, and there’s a reason I’m the one fixing it.” Another crank on the torque wrench, another bolt freed. You eye the top of the engine block and scan the area for a stepladder.A hand slams against the exposed engine block, pinning you into place. Law glares down at you with intent, eyes hard and calculating.“You’d do well to remember who your Captain is, Rowan-ya.”
Relationships: Trafalgar D. Water Law/Reader
Comments: 29
Kudos: 136





	1. nuts and bolts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i go to school for three years for mechanic shit and this is how i use it  
> bullshitting my way through a fic
> 
> also the setting for this is Very Loosely after doflamingo  
> i say loosely because dang y'all time is weird

“Do you always have to look at me like that?” 

Your demand goes unanswered, Law’s jaw clenched tight as he looks askance. “Just overseeing the repairs, Rowan-ya.” 

Huffing a sigh, you brush hair from your eyes and flick away the collected sweat at your brow. Were this any other time, any other situation, you would find the situation more amusing, more promising. The new ship’s mechanic stuck in a hot, humid room with their Captain ‘overseeing repairs’? Fodder for a wonderful story, that. 

As it stood, however, the Polar Tang had been motionless in the ocean for a few hours now. Heat built up from the engine room outwards, enveloping the small, tight corridors of the submarine in what was quickly becoming a forcible sauna. Nearly all of the crew members had resorted to completing their duties with their suits dangling around their hips, desperately hoping for some refrain from the insistent heat. 

Opening the port windows hadn’t lent much relief either – they were caught in a summer island’s current and the weather only reinforced the dreary midsummer breeze that barely, if at all, blew into the stationary submarine. 

You, however, ignore the heat with a single-minded determinism that stems from too many years working on engines in the dead of summer; a sun high in the sky, beating down on you as you fumble with wrenches and bolts and wires. Law had invited you on his crew recently for that very fact – you were the best goddamn mechanic this side of Paradise. 

And now, looking over the damage he’d wrought on the Tang’s engine? He was lucky to have you on board. 

Law had given you every detail of what he had done to the engine earlier – upon waking and realizing that they were no longer moving, he had attempted to restart the engine. When that failed to work, he tried again. And again. He’d only come to gather you from your daily maintenance in one of the medical bays after the engine had started _smoking_ , and that was just - 

You rest your head against the Tang’s engine, muffling a string of curses under your breath. Law really was a moron sometimes. Sure, terrifying and powerful and ooh, one of the _Supernovas_ , how _fun_. 

Still a fucking moron. 

“You know what this means.” You point at the thin trail of smoke leaking from the top of the engine, where you know the cylinders rest, motionless. Law frowns, taking a seat on a nearby crate. 

“Enlighten me.” he responds drily. 

You shuffle over to your toolbox, remove a few wrenches and a particularly large torque wrench. “It means, _Captain_ ,” you pause, grunting in effort as you start to dismantle the outer shielding for the engine itself, “that she overheated. Probably cracked a cylinder, if not the whole damn engine.” You run an oil-darkened hand through your hair, ignoring Law’s look of disgust. “Do you know how that happened, _Captain_?” 

You can’t help the derision that slips into your tone when you call him by his epithet – he deserves much more, for fucking up the Tang so badly. No matter how much he wants to chase down the Yonko, no matter how much he looks forward to the next fight, the next island; there’s no reason to break your ship to do so, not when you’re in the middle of the most dangerous ocean known to man. 

Law fails to respond, silver eyes staring you down with something too much like a cold, dangerous intent. 

“This happened because someone kept trying to force her to run when she couldn’t even start.” You finish removing the outer shielding, squinting your eyes against the sudden release of a billow of smoke. There’s a definitive crack that runs the length of the engine block itself, and you sigh heavily. You point at the crack now, work-roughened hands caressing the damage. “Because _someone_ ,” you snarl unintentionally, “didn’t come get their _goddamned mechanic_ when the engine didn’t run the first time.” 

His expression doesn’t change from the annoyed neutrality you’re so used to seeing, but his eyes narrow just enough that he understands exactly what you’re saying. 

You shuffle back to your toolbox – the damn legs on this jumpsuit are too long, fucking _annoying_ \- and pull out a carton of cigarettes. A guilty pleasure you never indulge in around your captain; you understand the risks of using, and he’s more than happy to explain in thorough detail what’ll happen if you continue, but god you deserve something right now. 

Law’s mouth hardens to a thin line when you light up, quirking an eyebrow to gauge his reaction. His hands jerk a little when you exhale your first drag. 

“This is gonna take a while to fix. Minimum of three days, with help.” You glance back at the engine proper, frowning. “I need to take her apart, inspect the full extent of the damage, and -” you pause, groaning, “shit, I don’t even remember if we have a spare block. _Damn_.” Another drag and you turn to the engine fully. “We may have to order new parts, you know. Do we still have a transponder snail for Sabaody available?” 

He nods tightly. He’s _pissed_ , and the fact just makes your mouth curl into a wry smile as you take another drag. 

“Either way, we’re fucked. Sitting ducks until this is fixed.” You move towards the power station and stop, sending Law a look. “We need to open up the sub, get some airflow. It’s already stuffy as hell in here, and god knows it’ll get worse once I shut down the air circulation.” Humming, you pick up the snail that controls the ship’s PA. 

“Hey there, Rowan speaking. Prepare to open all hatches. The engine is undergoing repair as of today.” 

You don’t hear the resulting movement aboard the sub, but you know it’s there – the engine room is loud enough that within the first few weeks of travel it had been fully soundproofed to ease the rising annoyances of the crew. 

“This means no electricity. No showers, no air circulation, no _light_.” You take another drag, adding to the cloud of smoke hovering at the ceiling. Law grunts. 

It doesn’t take much longer to finish off your cigarette, reaching back into your toolbox to retrieve a well-worn ashtray, pressing the stub of it into the ash-stained glass. You undo your topknot for a moment, gathering your hair back up so less strands get in your way, and murmur lowly about a haircut. Law doesn’t move, his eyes trained on the engine. 

“I’d better get started.” You grab the torque wrench and start loosening the bolts holding the engine block together. “Go grab me some coffee if you’re just gonna sit there.” 

“Excuse me?” He sounds more surprised than anything, like he hadn’t expected an order out of you. 

“Go get,” you grunt, heaving the torque wrench down against a particularly stubborn bolt, “me some _fuckin’_ coffee.” The bolt comes loose a moment after, and you inspect it for signs of wear and rust. Tighter than expected, you frown. There’s considerable pitting on the engine block itself, the closer you look at it, and you resolve to have _words_ with the previous maintenance crew. 

When Law doesn’t respond through noise or movement, you hazard a quick look backwards. He’s leaned forward, hands steepled together, and he looks verifiably enraged. 

“Excuse me.” he repeats, and this time it’s low, cold. 

You bite down the urge to apologize, ire peaking once more. “You can always read through the maintenance manual yourself, _Captain_.” There’s a small box to your left that you deftly toss the engine block bolts into. “There’s a reason we’re in this mess, and there’s a reason I’m the one fixing it.” Another crank on the torque wrench, another bolt freed. You eye the top of the engine block and scan the area for a stepladder. 

A hand slams against the exposed engine block, pinning you into place. Law glares down at you with intent, eyes hard and calculating. 

“You’d do well to remember who your Captain is, Rowan-ya.” 

You meet his eyes defiantly. “I’ll respect my Captain when he doesn’t almost blow up his goddamn ship because he’s too fucking _i_ _mpatient_ -” You shove your wrench into his chest, delighting in the small grunt he makes from the shock, “-to call his fucking _mechanic-”_ Another shove, this time stopped by his hand against your wrist, “ _when his fucking ship engine is broken!”_

You go to shove at him again, eyes alight with frustration and annoyance, and Law spits out a curse. A brilliant blue light envelops the two of you as he disappears, replaced instantly by his first mate. 

Bepo blinks, looks around. “Oh, Rowan!” he greets warmly, as though you aren’t mid swing with your wrench. You damn near growl, reaching back into your toolbox _again_ for another cigarette, dropping your wrench in the open box as you light up once more. 

“Bepo,” you exhale between jerky, angry movements, “Why is he like _that_.” 

Work on the engine is slow – the damage is greater than you’d initially thought, with not only the engine block itself cracked beyond repair, but two of the cylinders warped and several of the gaskets completely shredded. 

Had Law not stolen your cigarettes so quickly after discovering you still had them, you’d be lighting up out of spite. Living as a pirate in the New World meant your life expectancy wasn’t too entirely high to begin with, so indulging in vices was damn near required to remain sane. 

It might help with the growing tension within the crew, you reason. With too close of quarters, not enough air, and no way to freshen up, the crew was near ready to start fighting in earnest just for a way to pass the time and relieve the frustration bubbling within. 

You weren’t exactly immune, but you at least could distract yourself with repairing the engine, demanding help from one or two of the previous maintenance crew whenever they passed too close to the engine room. 

“What’s our timetable on those parts, Shachi?” you grunt between lips holding too many bolts. You’d forgone any sort of modesty half a day ago as the temperature in the room had climbed another twenty degrees, shedding the jumpsuit for a shirt and some spare shorts. The ease of movement helped as you began to tear apart the underside of the engine, replacing sheared bolts and performing a full overhaul of what once was the pride of the Tang. 

The new block had been dropped off by none other than the Straw Hats, with Franky helping you set it into place, but the remaining parts were still en route from Sabaody – a full three days travel if the shipment was delivered nonstop. In your experience, it almost never was. 

Franky had even been so kind to offer his services, and you were wont to take him up on the offer what with the most serious of repairs still in the near future, but a quick conversation between Law and the Straw Hat captain had put that dream to rest only moments later. They sailed off into the distance, waving their goodbyes, and Law had met your infuriated gaze with a small smirk. 

“Still a few more days, at minimum.” Shachi responds, handing you a flathead when you gesticulate wildly with your arm out from under the engine. You loosen a few of the tubes connected as part of the fluid system, and groan loudly when oil leaks out onto your shoulder. 

“ _Fuckin’_ hell.” you spit out, trying to avoid the splatter of filthy oil. 

Shachi snickers from where he sits a few feet away and you kick out in his general direction, letting out a triumphant shout when it connects and you hear the resounding yelp of pain. 

“Yeah, fuck you Shachi.” You turn your attention back to the engine, propping your legs up to scooch further in, get a better angle for the next tube. The screwdriver slips a little in your hand and you fumble briefly, wiping your oily hands on your shorts. Despite everything – the heat, the general discomfort of feeling disgusting and being coated in oil – this is still a blast, still the most fun you’ve had in months. There’s nothing quite like working with your hands, watching as a physical task culminates in something bright and shiny and _usable_. You’re grateful for Law, honestly, taking you on without argument when you declared yourself the best goddamn mechanic in the Grand Line. 

Fuck telling him though. Bastard has enough of an inflated ego as it is – the importance that comes with being the Surgeon of Death, a former Warlord, and a part of the Worst Generation has made him cocky, demanding. Too quick to jump into battle, now that he’s watched Doflamingo fall. Too quick to throw away his life. 

You huff out a growl under your breath, spitting out a bolt that threatens to fall into your mouth. It clangs against the underside of the engine, metal on metal, and you disconnect the next tube. 

Another spray of oil has you fumbling for a rag in despair, choking out “Shachi, fuckin. Towel, please.” 

Something worn and fluffy finds its way into your hands and you’re grateful you moved further up, if only because the oil missed your face by half a foot. You position the rag over your chest, trying to sop up the combination of grease and sweat and oil you’ve been rocking for over a day now, failing to do much more than smear the mess around until you’re rubbed raw from trying. 

You sigh heavily and resume your work. 

Hours pass like this with the engine hovering above you, suspended by the dual cherry pickers you’d had installed half a year ago. Deft hands tinker and inspect and twitch in annoyance when yet _another_ problem arises – whoever's been in charge of checking the oil in the engine clearly hasn’t, if the sludge pouring out of the various connector hoses is anything to go by. 

“We’re gonna have to flush the system,” you mumble to yourself, hand trailing up until it reaches the tank responsible for holding the oil for the engine. It’s positioned awkwardly, in the back corner of the room in such a way that it demands those that refill it must press themselves between the metal of the engine and the metal of the wall. You think for a moment about the heat the engine emits daily – it makes sense then, that it hasn’t been refilled in so long. No one wants to sacrifice themselves up for third degree burns for a hunk of metal, even if it’s the reason for their survival. 

“Who the hell designed this shit.” you continue to mumble, shifting down until the lower half of your body is visible from under the engine, legs propped up and knees high. “Shachi, don’t we have a creeper stashed away somewhere?” 

You wait a moment, rolling your eyes when there’s no answer. “Shachi, you shithead.” 

Grunting, you continue to shift down until you’re staring at the front half of the underside, reaching up to tighten one of the tubes you’d replaced earlier. There’s not much more to be done on the underside at this point, not without the parts you’re waiting for, and you wipe sweat from your brow out of relief. 

Legs falling flat as you stretch; you brush up against something firm and unyielding. “Shachi, you fucker,” you start, shimmying out from under the engine the rest of the way, “you were supposed to fuckin’ _help_ , asshole.” 

You blink angrily at the bright lights that blind you briefly, sticking out a hand for Shachi to help pull you up. There’s a moment where nothing happens, your other hand still shielding you from the glare, before a firm grasp pulls you out and up to your feet. 

Wiping your hands on your (admittedly filthy) biker shorts, you catch a glimpse of tanned hands and tattoos where there should be pale skin and a familiar white jumpsuit. You groan. 

“What do you want, Captain.” 

Law frowns, giving you a once over that makes the heat of the room tick over into full-blown annoyance. He crosses his arms. “Just stopped by to see how things are proceeding.” 

You gesture back at the engine, indicating the lack of crack down the middle. “Damn good, considering. Just waiting on new cylinders and gaskets from Sabaody.” Oil still slick on your skin has you glancing back roughly at the oil canister in the back of the engine. “We need to flush the system, introduce new oil. It’ll be a shock to her, but nothing she can’t handle after we get the cylinders.” 

His frown deepens somehow, and you almost laugh from the absurdity of his expression. He looks like an annoyed child, petulant and frustrated. You fight the urge to pat him heavily on the shoulder with hands blackened from soot and grime, knowing he’s as likely to remove a limb as he is to throw you overboard via Room. 

“They’ll be here day after tomorrow.” 

You light up at the promise of a shower in the near future. “Oh, thank god.” 

“You’re disgusting.” he follows up, and your brief exuberance is replaced by resigned annoyance. 

“No shit, Captain. Mechanic’s work isn’t exactly clean.” 

Law seems to shift his weight, eyes narrowed. He uncrosses his arms, makes an abortive gesture towards you, and you watch with thinly veiled confusion. 

“Uh.” you start, helpfully. 

“The shower in my room still works.” Law eventually snaps out at you, “Make use of it.” 

Warmth blooms in your chest, a quick “Oh god thank you so much,” before you grab the oil stained towel and wipe off your face enough to justify walking the corridors of the Tang. You don’t even bother with your chest or arms, marking them as a lost cause, and quickly snag the container of mechanic's soap you keep alongside you when you perform maintenance work. 

He grabs your arm just as you’re about to walk out the door, letting go just as quick when he realizes just how much of you is covered in grime and how much has just transferred over to his own hand. “Ugh,” he shakes his hand as though that will help, murmuring “ _Room_.” in the same instance. 

You find yourself standing in a bathroom a heartbeat later, still holding a towel. Law isn’t with you, thankfully, and while being _Room_ ’d is disorienting it’s not enough that you’re stopped from nearly jumping into the shower out of glee. 

Hot water cascades over you not even a moment later as you scrub your body down until you’re pink from both the heat and the exertion of cleaning yourself. Showering hasn’t felt this good in _months;_ something about restricted access makes gaining it so much sweeter than normal. 

Cleanliness obtained, you focus your efforts into discovering why exactly Law has hot running water when the rest of the ship suffers. It takes a moment of your hands dancing across the tiles, bending over to inspect any lip or ridge in the meticulous crafting, before you find what you’re looking for. 

Nestled behind the protruding showerhead is a Dial forcefully spitting out water and another beneath it heating up the piping. You almost cackle at the design – there's a clear distinction between this work and the rest of the piping in the Tang, with the tiles themselves so obviously having been removed and replaced during the small renovation. It looks hastily done, badly constructed; you wouldn’t be surprised if the Dials were _taped_ in, honestly. 

You finish your shower a bit later, luxuriating in the feeling of being _clean_ for the first time in half a week, and step out into the bathroom just as you realize you’ve forgotten a change of clothing. A towel hangs against the back of the door, which you gladly take, but the only clothes available to you are the filthy ones you’ve been wearing all day. 

Still, this is the Captain’s bathroom, adjacent to his bedroom proper, and he _owes_ you. 

You plod out to his dresser, noting the spartan decoration he’s so fond of – the exception of course being his desk. Piled high with papers and books and medical journals, contents nearly spilling from the edges, a single lamp illuminating the mass of information. 

His bed is spotless, covers smooth and untouched. Between that and the large chair settled next to his desk, it’s obvious which one he prefers. You think back to his unyielding gaze, silver eyes underlined by perpetual bags that have only deepened over time. 

The thought of your captain staring off into the distance, mouth set in a hard line, unmoving until the early hours of the morning when he gets up and does everything all over again - 

You shrug the thought away, ransacking his drawers for something to throw on. You’ve written off your undergarments; as stained with soot and oil as they are, it’ll take more than a few washes to clean them properly. You find underwear first: plain black boxers that are a touch too tight on your thick, stocky frame. A shirt soon follows, hugging your chest tight when you pull it over your head. It’s black and yellow, and you grimace at the color clash with your too pale skin. 

Pants are a lost cause – you know this as soon as you pull out the first pair. His boxers may have stretched to fit your ass and thighs, but nothing can make the jeans yield to your frame. You huff out a small, “Shit.” and continue to look through for something you can wear, only folding up what you’d already pulled out at the thought of Law finding his drawers a mess at the end of the night. 

He might piss you off, but you’re not a monster. 

You eventually find an old, worn out pair of sweats, the Heart Pirates logo emblazoned on the ass. You quirk a smile at the thought of Law parading around the Tang in these, barking out orders in his pajamas. 

Satisfied with your findings, you ball up your clothes in the towel you’d used and dump them unceremoniously down the laundry chute. A problem for someone else. 

“Rowan-ya.” Law sighs grandiosely, a hand rubbing at his temples. “What are you wearing.” 

It’s not a question so much as a demand and you take it in stride, grinning widely. 

“Oh, this little number?” You do a shimmy. Penguin laughs. 

The library isn’t too occupied at this time of night, with the usual only being Law, Bepo, and Penguin. You need to brush up on your engine work, however, and so the night finds you curled up against Bepo, reading the manual the engine downstairs is mocked up against. You never cease to be surprised on the Tang, with your newest discovery being that the engine isn’t just one specific, lesser-known name brand. 

No, the engine is a conglomeration of four separate engines, all mashed together to form something that you personally would love to tear apart for fun, not for work. It’s an absolute disaster of an engine, which explains the insane amount of tubes and wires and fucking _valves_ all over the damn thing – it's honestly a wonder it works at all. 

“ _Rowan-ya_.” Law growls under his breath, and you glance back up from the manual, Bepo shifting nervously behind you. What catches you off guard is that he doesn’t look annoyed, really. His face is flushed a little, and his mouth is drawn to a thin, hard line, but his posture suggests that he’s more tense than anything. The bags under his eyes are enormous. 

“You could use some sleep, Captain.” 

Law grumbles from where he sits, turning his gaze back to the newest copy of the Journal of Thoracic and Cardiovascular Surgery. Penguin glances between the two of you with a sinister, knowing look. You stick your tongue out at him. 

A few sections later, you’re staring down the dumbest cooling system ever put in an engine known to man, and everything clicks. 

“Captain,” you start, and Law shifts in his seat to better look at you. “Who built the Tang?” 

He stiffens. You narrow your gaze. 

“The cooling system, according to what’s in the manual? Looks like it’s designed to break at regular intervals.” You laugh wryly, turning the book around for him to glance at, though you know he doesn’t understand a bit of the diagram. “The ship was designed to be a death trap, Captain.” 

It feels strange to say this, curled up against Bepo in Law’s clothes, with Penguin looking on as though he’s only vaguely surprised. Law himself doesn’t react beyond sighing again, dropping his head to his hands. Another sigh, a few moments later, and you hear him whisper, “Yeah, okay.” 

He looks up and somehow the bags under his eyes are even more pronounced than before. “How long would it take to fix this, Rowan-ya?” 

You wince. “At least a week longer.” 

He nods. Penguin and Bepo groan. Law stands and stretches, a rare moment of humanity you don’t often see from your too-collected Captain. He glances back at you, suddenly lighter than before, and _smiles_. 

“And how long do you plan on wearing my clothes?” 

Your heart jumps into your throat, stopping entirely for the briefest moment. It takes everything in you to swallow and breathe. “You’re the one that forced me to shower.” 

His smile fades into a self-satisfied smirk. “It was for the crew’s benefit more than anything, Rowan-ya.” 

Your heart skips again. _What the fuck_. 

Waking up the next morning finds you wrapped in nothing but your sheets, staring openly at the ceiling. 

He’d _smiled_ at you. 

You wave the thought away and stand, forcing yourself to hop around until you feel awake, until you feel less heady and circuitous with your thinking. His clothes are where you left them last night – after your discovery, the four of you had talked long about what to do in regards to the engine. You’d taken the initiative to explain what needed to be done, and Penguin offered his services alongside Shachi until everything was fixed, with the promise that it would be fixed _soon_. 

And really, with the parts coming in tomorrow, it would be. Sure, you needed to do some jerry-rigging of the entire system, rerouting certain cooling elements to avoid what had happened in the future, but - 

Oh, hell. 

You had to apologize to Law. 

_It wasn’t his fault_. 

You find him in the library still, eyes red from overexertion and a lack of sleep, frame slumped over yet another medical textbook. Leaning in the doorway, it’s easy to see the toll everything has taken on him since Doflamingo. Before, he’d been driven by a singular purpose, so ready to fight and kill and _die,_ but now? 

Now he just looks tired, old beyond his years. Drawn out and strung along and _exhausted_. 

“Captain?” you venture, and his gaze slides over to you slowly, brows drawn together like he’s delirious. His skin is paler than usual, blotchy and red like he’s got a fever. 

“Oh, _Law_.” 

You drag him up and out of his chair, noting how he doesn’t even resist, and you throw his weight over your shoulder in a fireman’s carry. He’s tall enough that it’s almost difficult – all six feet of him draped over your five-foot-six body. You hear him mumble from behind you, something about needing to finish the article he’s on, and you smack his thighs lightly. 

“Shut up. I’m taking you to bed.” 

He doesn’t argue, only slumps even further against you as you make your way out of the library, down the flight of stairs that leads to the crew quarters and captain’s cabin. You don’t pass many other crew members on your way down; the ones you do give you a wide berth alongside concerned glances. The gentleman that mans the wheel goes so far as to mumble, “Please take care of him,” before disappearing in the next breath. 

“Yeah, yeah.” you respond, shifting Law’s weight just enough that it’s more comfortable on your shoulder. His bedroom door opens easy and you’ve never been quite so glad for the fact that Law feels that comfortable around the rest of you. 

You deposit him on his bed, watching with a sort of measured amusement when he bounces and wakes up in the same movement. Still exhausted beyond reason, he only murmurs your name in response to his new environment, eyebrows slowly knitting together when he realizes what you’re trying to do. 

“I need,” he pauses to yawn deeply, shifting his weight so he can sit up on his bed, “I need to go back to work.” 

You push him back down on the bed easily – too easily, really, Law isn’t weak by any means – and cross your arms. “You need to sleep.” 

He’s fully awake now and more disgruntled for it; the push had knocked off his hat from the force, and you can see how limp and greasy his hair is under the ceiling light. He looks a _mess_. 

“I’m going back to work, Rowan-ya.” He places his hat back on his head in a smooth, deceptively put-together motion, and you push him again. Law’s more prepared this time and he takes the push easily, though not without a slight sway as he fights against the pressure on his chest. You splay your hands against the span of his chest and _shove_ , watching him fall back with a grunt and a glare. “I have a ship to run, goddamnit.” he seethes, and it catches you off guard just long enough for him to sit back up yet again and shove you back. 

You assess the situation and nod to yourself, cracking your neck in response. One more shove and he’s _growling_ now, fury rising up to replace the helplessness you’d seen only moments before. “Rowan-ya, _don’t get in my way_.” 

“Law, I’ll tie you to this fucking bed if that’s what it takes.” You take the initiative to straddle his legs, hands still on his chest as he tries in vain to make you move. “When’s the last time you slept, honestly?” When he opens his mouth to answer – to snark, most likely – you cut him off with a glare. “More than an hour, Captain. Naps don’t count.” 

Law glances over to the corner that holds his desk and chair, eyes slowly shutting as he huffs a deep sigh. Head falling back to his pillow, you smile wide. 

“Good boy, get some sleep.” 

The answering jerk from his body isn’t expected, but it’s enough to make you tumble off of him. He swears, loudly, reaching down to pull you from the floor, and when you meet his gaze his mouth parts as though he’s about to say something. 

You swallow, looking away, and the moment passes. 

“I got an engine to fix, Captain. I’ll wake you up for dinner tonight.” It sounds quiet even to your ears, but Law only nods in response. 

The parts arrive a full day early, halfway through a lunch that Penguin and Shachi drag you to so you can get away from the engine for more than ten minutes. It’s incredible, really, now that you understand the workings of it more fully. The engine is a verifiable death trap for the submarine – using it demands that it nearly be on the brink of exploding almost constantly, cooling problems notwithstanding. You’d be impressed were it not for the fact that you were currently on the sub in question, trying desperately to make sure the damn thing didn’t kill your whole crew. 

Besides, focusing on the engine means less time thinking about whatever was going on with Law lately. His lack of sleep, his stupid propensity to work himself to death – you were half tempted to tinker on him too, see if that would help any. 

Your cheeks blaze red at the thought. 

“So, we’re rerouting the coolant system today, now that the parts are here, right?” Penguin asks. It’s all you can do to shovel down the omurice you’re eating for lunch, nodding assent. He nods in kind, continuing. “After the coolant system, we need to replace the cylinders and gaskets.” 

He frowns. “Wasn’t there something else?” 

Shachi pipes up from across the table, mouth full. “Yeah, checking the plugs. We’ve got plenty of spares.” 

“We also need to write a full report on this – I don’t want the next mechanic to be as fucked as we are right now, you know?” you pipe up, and the answering frowns you receive throw you off enough that you gesture vaguely. “What?” 

“You plan on leaving?” Shachi says, and you quirk a brow. 

“Do we ever?” Your response is muffled by your next bite, quickly swallowed. “No, but shit happens. Accidents happen. The engine is proof of that.” 

Penguin snorts. “Better not tell that to the captain.” 

You squint your eyes. “I already have, Pen. What are you idiots talking about?” 

The look they share is loaded with meaning, and for the first time you find yourself annoyed, wishing you knew the crew as well as everyone else seemed to. You wave them off impatiently, downing the rest of your drink, and announce your return to work. 

“Meet me whenever you shitheads are done being weird.” you call back, and there’s a startled guffaw from Shachi that means you’ve missed the point entirely. 

The three of you work well into the night; the coolant system takes the longest to fix, with the various tubes crisscrossing in unnecessary ways that just highlight how little relief the Tang’s engine was getting. Penguin burns his hand when you start the engine up for the first time in almost a week, confirming your rough assessment. 

“She’s generating too much heat for the output we’re getting.” you conclude. Shachi’s tending to Penguin’s hand behind you, the shorter man hissing in pain whenever the burn cream you keep on hand touches his inflamed skin. You’ve long since turned her off, but the heat pouring out from her is still enough that you can’t come within a few feet of the mass of metal. “There’s something in there that’s causing extra movement.” You chew on your lip, thinking hard about what you’d seen when you took her apart for the first time. 

“Maybe not something extra, but something it’s lacking?” you murmur to yourself. Penguin and Shachi look between you and the engine with a healthy mix of speculation. 

“We put the oil in.” Shachi says. 

“The coolant is moving through the system.” Penguin adds. 

“If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say it’s the cylinders themselves.” The resulting groan from the two of them brings you out of your reverie, glancing back at the scene before you. 

“We just put them in!” Shachi complains. 

“We have to take it apart _again_?” Penguin whines. 

“No,” You grin. “It’s the fucking timing belt.” 

There’s a low, steady chime that reverberates through the room; it’s well past midnight and the three of you have an early morning. You clap your hands and shoo the two of them out, muttering about how a timing belt is an easy fix, and how you’d be done in moments, don’t worry. 

Three hours later the belt is replaced and the Tang’s engine rumbles into life, just as you’re nursing your new burns. The damage you took isn’t terrible, you think, but it’s not the nicest looking thing either. Though, you think blearily as dawn starts to break over the ocean horizon, there really may not be such a thing as a good-looking burn. 

Besides, you slump against the wall adjacent to the engine with a small, satisfied smile, it's easier to ignore your injuries in favor of sleep. 

What wakes you isn’t the cries of relief as air starts to circulate in the Tang once more, nor is it the cheers erupting from the various shower rooms as steamy water pours from the showerheads. The engine room is silent, of course, what with the insulation and padding that you’d previously been so grateful for. 

There’s a hand gently pulling at your arms and a hissed curse, hands traveling up to frame your face lightly. 

“Rowan-ya.” 

You’re dreaming, of course. Law doesn’t touch people, apart from Bepo, and he certainly doesn’t murmur to you while you’re asleep like this, curled up against a wall. 

A wall? Oh, right. The engine room. The Tang can move again. You should tell Law. 

“C’mon, Rowan-ya. I need you awake.” 

You swat at the intruder – definitely not Law, with his serious eyes, his tattoos, the way he’d smiled at you once – and frown when you don’t feel much from your hands. You blink yourself awake, confusing nesting in the back of your mind, and the first thing you see is Law, huddled before you on his knees. 

“Oh, thank god.” He’s a flurry of motion as soon as you recognize him, pulling you against him until you’re comfortably seated in his lap. He stands quickly after, moving you before you realize he’s _carrying_ you like a fucking _princess_ through the Tang. 

You want to talk, but your mouth feels dry, cracked. “L-Law?” you manage somehow, between the endless desert that is your throat and the sudden flare of pain in your arms. 

This is absolutely a dream. None of this makes any amount of sense. You go with the obvious option, then, and lean into his chest as he starts to...sprint? No, that can’t be right. 

Law doesn’t run, he stalks. Like a particularly sexy leopard, or something. 

He shifts your body up enough that your head is nestled in the crook of his neck, and you relish the feeling for the moment before you’re deposited onto a bed; sturdy and familiar in a way you instinctively _hate_. 

Noises fade in and out of each other and you’re just so goddamn _tired_. 

You wake up once more with a headache and enough medication in your system to realize that something’s decidedly not right. 

Law’s presence in the chair beside you, eyes unblinking and hands folded together, only serves to reinforce that idea. He looks anxious, worried, until you catch his gaze. 

The fear drops in favor of a full-on snarl, teeth bared and eyes sharp. 

“Uh.” you start, stopping when your body decides that coughing is the better option here, helping you realize the sharp pain in your throat. Law stands, stalks around the med bay for a moment – no, not the med bay, the _surgical bay, fuck_ \- and returns with a cup of water and a straw. 

“Drink,” he commands. 

There’s nothing in you that would disobey this order, not when you feel like you haven’t had water in _weeks_. You suck it down gratefully, eagerly, eyes glancing up at Law’s face, no less angry. 

He sets the cup aside and returns to his previous seat, hands once again steepled together. You lick your lips. 

“So,” you start again, and he exhales sharply through his nose. “What happened?” 

“Do you have any idea-” Law stops himself, rubs at his temples. His voice is cold and measured, and you start planning for your immediate exile off the Tang. He breathes deep just long enough that you think maybe, just maybe, this conversation might go okay. 

Law snaps up the medical chart from the base of the hospital bed and you wince, all hope gone. 

“Third degree burns.” His eyes flare from where he sits, glaring at you. “Severe blood clots, as _patient_ ,” he hisses out, “did not receive medical attention until several hours had passed from time of injury.” 

You swallow. “Oh.” 

Law sets the chart down on the adjacent counter gently, turning back to pin you with a look that makes you want to squirm. 

“Never again.” 

You’re not sure what he means, initially. The injury, probably, but maybe working on the Tang? Maybe putting him to sleep? Your mind is racing, possibilities popping up at a million miles an hour, anxiety climbing - 

“You will never get hurt under my command ever again.” 

_Oh_. 

Law looks at you like he _owns_ you, eyes poring over the burns on your hands, the way your hair falls against your pillow, the parting of your lips when you understand. You nod, quickly. 

“Understood, Captain.” 


	2. up and at em

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a brief interlude between adventures

“I’m _fine_ , Captain.” 

Law frowns from his position a few feet away. “You’re still healing.” He turns and runs fingers over the cubby holes that line the entirety of the wall, little displays that house various medication and treatments. You watch the methodical tapping of his fingers against the glass – inventory taking, you guess – and try to sit up properly. He’s on you in a moment, sighing as he pushes you back down onto the bed. “It’s only been two weeks, Rowan-ya. You need a minimum of three before I allow you to return to duty.” 

You want to argue with him; you feel _fine_ , goddamnit. The burns are mostly gone by now, the skin grafts having taken wonderfully to the palms of your hands, and now you're just bored. 

“At least gimme something to do,” you whine. Law looks you over with a barely concealed smirk. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll bring you some books later today, if you’re good.” 

Gesticulating wildly, you wince at the sharp shock of pain. “What else could I do? Not like you’ve let me leave the damn sick bay.” You eye him warily. “You’re planning on letting me go back to work, right?” There’s still the fear of being abandoned low in your gut, exacerbated when you think back to how angry he’d been when you’d first woken up. It intensifies with the considering look he gives you, head cocked to the side. “Captain, I won’t do anything like that again -” you cut yourself off, clearing your throat. “I’ll do my best to _try_ , at least?” you amend, and his evaluative gaze shifts to something softer. 

He abandons his task to sit beside you, bed dipping from his weight. A hand lightly pushes at your head – you'd tried to sit up again in your haste to explain. Law’s hand is firm, warm against your forehead; thumb rubbing where your hairline begins. 

“Go back to sleep, Rowan-ya.” 

“I’ve already slept half the day, I wanna _do_ something.” 

He’s laughing before you can prepare yourself for the low, throaty chuckles. Warmth spreads from your cheeks and coalesces in your gut from the sound; he’s never _laughed_ at you before. 

“I should have known you’d be a terrible patient.” He smiles openly at you, no trace of venom or derision, and you choke a little on your own breath. 

“Maybe,” and the words sound forced, strange, “I’d be a better patient if I had something to do.” 

Silence settles between the two of you, Law holding your stare as easy as anything. The air shifts and you can’t breathe with the weight of sudden tension gripping at your throat. This is _different_. 

“Captain?” you venture, and he blinks, surprised. 

“Ah,” He stands and turns back to his inventory, hand unclenching and lightly tapping on the glass as he starts to count again. “You can-” Law freezes, tension coiled in his back. “You can call me Law, if you’d like.” 

The admission is quiet, soft in a way you’ve come to expect in the moments he spends with you. Even so, you’re not really sure how to proceed – this is your _Captain;_ the leader of the Heart Pirates, a pirate with a five hundred million Beri bounty. 

You swallow and realize he’s expecting a response. Unmoving, head bowed over the counter, hands gripping it tight enough that his knuckles have gone white. 

“I need something to do, Law. Books, journals, whatever.” From this angle you can only barely see the way his cheek quirks up into a smile. “Hell, I'll read your _medical_ shit if that’s what it takes. Just,” you pause, gaze darting away when he turns to rest against the counter. “Just let me do something here, Law, I’m so _bored_.” 

The answering smile you receive makes your heart skip for a second, breathless. 

True to his word, he swings by late in the night to drop off a few books and magazines – most are tailored to your interests, what with the majority being mechanical journals only recently released into circulation. You eye those approvingly, blushing a deep scarlet when you realize that he must have ordered those for you specially. The remaining few books are all medical journals, with a copy of _First Aid and Safety for Dummies_ tucked neatly next to an appropriate _Burn Care_ journal. 

“You really think you’re funny, huh.” you mumble lowly, well after he’s left you alone with your new hoard. Flipping through the first few pages of the first aid book, you huff lightly and set it aside. 

The mechanical journals – thick and bound together with twine – are more your speed, detailing the newest applications and processes that you’re keen to start applying. Understanding how much of a disaster the Tang’s engine is only makes you want to take her apart, study her closer. Briefly, you consider writing out a formal letter detailing what exactly the engine had to undergo in order to bring the Tang back up to proper working order, but - 

Well, Law might not appreciate you disseminating secrets about his ship. 

There’s something else to consider. Law himself, demanding you never get hurt again under his watch. It’s easy to remember how he’d looked in that moment, leaning over you: eyes narrowed and _wild_ , demanding; hair a distant, shaggy mess; hands gripping the edge of the hospital bed’s railings. 

He’d looked damn near unhinged, begging like that. Because that’s what it was, really, wasn’t it? Your Captain had ordered that you never get hurt like this ever again – ah, wait. He’d _told_ you. He hadn’t so much ordered as told you exactly how it was going to be. Demanded that you understand just what he'd do if the alternative came to pass. You try to think of any other occasion he's done this, any other person on the crew. Bepo, maybe, but it's always been a fond sort of exasperation. Not thick, angry demands.

Breath catches in your throat. You glance back at the mechanic journals.

_Well_. 

You pick up the _First Aid and Safety for Dummies_ book again, skimming through until you find things that pique your interest. Might as well learn a thing or two while you’re stuck on bed rest. 

A week later you’re facing down Law as he removes your bandages for what you hope is the last time, babbling on about how the journals he’d secured for you had given you the most _incredible_ ideas on how to refurbish the engine into something resembling less a death trap and more a working piece of machinery. He listens with a crooked smile, turning your hands this way and that in his own, inspecting for any further damage beyond the obvious. 

“How does this feel?” he asks just before pinching the skin at your fingertip roughly. You frown at him. 

“Feels like you just pinched an invalid, _Law_.” 

He grins, wide and open, dropping your hand. “Oh, an invalid? That sounds bad, maybe I should keep you here for a bit longer.” Law quirks a brow. “You know, to run whatever tests I need to ascertain how terrible your condition is.” 

You’re up and out of the bed before he can bark out a sharp peal of laughter, waving him off. “Oh, fuck you.” Your body aches from the lack of movement directed upon you by your Capt – by _Law_ \- and stretching out the kinks and cracks in your spine has never felt so good. He looks away pointedly when you move towards the clean clothes he’s brought for you, stripping quickly, efficiently, trying hard not to think about the man only a few feet behind you. 

Dressing quickly, you eventually come to face Law. He’s staring out the hatch of the submarine like it’s personally offended him, face dusted pink and scowling. 

“I’m good, you can turn around now.” 

He turns to see you bowing before him, low and deferential. “Rowan-ya,” he starts, but you cut him off quick. 

“Thank you for saving me, Captain.” You’ve practiced this a few times over the past few days, running the words through your mind until you felt they were perfect. “You saved not only my life, but also my livelihood. You’ve ensured that I can continue to help you in the days to come.” You take a deep breath, aiming to continue. 

Law places a hand on your shoulder. “It was nothing.” A moment passes and the hand on your shoulder twitches. “Please stand, Rowan-ya.” 

Reluctantly, you obey. The flush on his face has deepened into a ruddy scarlet. 

“I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused -” 

“You don’t need to bow to me, Rowan-ya -” 

The two of you stop short, exchanging quick smiles. 

“I really am sorry, Captain.” Law blinks, face settling into something more neutral. 

He rubs his neck awkwardly, looking askance. “It won’t happen again.” he eventually replies, and you remember what he’d said to you weeks prior. Law looks uncertain, almost _nervous_ , and you thump him lightly on the chest to get his attention. 

“Damn right it won’t.” You laugh softly, meeting his gaze. “You promised.” 

Your return from the sick bay heralds a massive party on the Tang. Organized by Penguin and Shachi, the Tang surfaces just outside of a spring island – far enough that the inhabitants won’t notice, but close enough that the ship can dock in a pinch if necessary. 

Drinks abound, food is handled by Jean Bart and Shachi, and even Law joins in on the festivities by way of nursing a small glass of whiskey in the corner, overseeing the commotion. You take the initiative to meet back up with those you’d missed during your recovery: Ikkaku slaps you heartily on the back and offers you a shot that you down with ease; Jean Bart and Shachi, manning the grill, damn near force feed you dinner; Penguin greets you with a grin and a tight hug, dragging you over to where he’s stashed enough sake to down a man. 

It’s wonderful, being able to walk and talk among your peers in such a way that you feel carefree, alive. This is your _crew;_ this is your _family_. 

You end up joining a drinking game headed by Ikkaku herself; five of you seated in a circle in the corner of the deck play poker and listen to the Captain for the round, with new rules introduced every time someone wins a hand. Shots come and go when a hand is lost, when a rule is forgotten, and like always it becomes easier to just hand each new player their own bottle in lieu of a spare shot glass.

Within the hour, you’re the only one coherent enough to ask for more alcohol for the group – several people have come and gone in that time, with the number of players changing so often that the card game has practically dissolved in the confusion. Jean Bart watches over the crew with something close to amusement dancing in his eyes, still calling out whenever the next round of food is available to eat. 

You stand and stumble enough that Penguin lightly thumps your leg with a guffaw, making your way over to his personal stash in retaliation. Fingers wrap around the neck of a bottle just as your vision is obscured with a familiar long coat and an exposed chest. A hand gently pushes your own down, hand threading into yours until the bottle of sake thuds lightly against the lid of a nearby barrel. 

The hand gripping your own tightens, squeezes enough that you squint up to catch the face of whoever the hell has you in their grasp. 

_Oh._

_“Law-”_

He’s amused, if the curl of his lip is anything to go by. “Should you really have any more?” he murmurs, and it’s then that you realize how close you’ve gotten in the span of mere seconds. Law’s stunning in the low light of the cabin sconces, illuminating him just enough that your breath catches in your throat when you catch the tantalizing curves of his chest tattoo, deliberately exposed. You can’t talk like this, eyes half lidded and throat constricted by the booze in your system and the heady possibility that lays before you. 

“Can’t hurt,” you whisper back, and Law’s hand squeezes yours once more. 

“Drink some water,” and then, “ _Room_.” 

He’s gone before you even blink, the weight and warmth of his hand in yours a phantom sensation you’re trying so hard to chase. You swallow, throat working past the lump that makes every breath shallow, gasping, and glance down where the bottle of sake sits. It’s not the problem it used to be, but the thought of the thick plum flavor sliding down your tongue makes you shake your head to rid yourself of the idea. 

Penguin finds you there a few minutes later, still frozen stock solid where Law had approached you just before. He laughs, claps you on the back, grabs the bottle you’ve been eyeing with unease. 

“C’mon Rowan, party’s not dead yet.” 

Shachi grins wildly at you from where he’s seated in the drinking circle, passing an open bottle of whiskey between him and Bepo. You’ve never seen the mink drink before – something about the navigator getting drunk alongside crew makes you more nervous than you care to admit – but he takes to it like a fish to water. You slow your own drinking; you could probably match Bepo with his ferocity, but something about the way Law held your gaze earlier makes you _want_ to stop. 

The feeling of warmth in your hand doesn’t go away for the rest of the night. 

The island the Tang is moored off of is beautiful and vibrant, pink blossoms spilling out over the small countryside. The village inhabiting the small isle is quaint – an inn and more than a few farms consist of the majority of the island proper, though the center of town does hold a small grocery and armory. It’s been too long since the Tang has dropped anchor _anywhere_ , what with the way it had stalled previous followed by the inevitable journey. 

Jean Bart has a list he needs to complete – groceries, followed by some basic arms procurement – and so has asked you and Bepo to come along. The man ambles along as best he can, dwarfing the native population with a sort of ease you’re almost envious of. 

Groceries come along easier than the arms – the clerk handling the small store is more than willing to part with a large portion of his stock for the amount of Beri’s you offer him, and even goes so far as to help load the Tang. He’s a sweet boy, no more than twenty, and you find yourself on the receiving end of his clumsy attempts at flirting. 

“Do you come around often?” he asks, arms straining from the weight of the boxes he’s hauling into the ship’s pantry. You huff out a responding laugh, shaking your head. 

“No, just passing through.” 

He smiles in return, entire face lighting up in earnest. “Oh, well. Uh. I can give you a tour of the island, if you want? There’s not much, but -” he cuts himself off, sheepish. “Not much, but it’s home.” 

Were you five years younger, five years more inexperienced, five years removed from tattooed hands and careful phrasing and long nights at the library with his presence just before you - 

You still give the boy a smile, nodding gently. “Yeah, I don’t mind.” Might as well make use of the locals, learn your way around the island long enough for the log pose to update. Might as well ignore the directions your thoughts steer towards with the young man’s brilliant smile. 

His jaw drops. Bepo pats him lightly on the shoulder in something quite like solidarity. The young man scrambles to gently offload the box of supplies before offering his hand in a handshake. “I’m Joanie, nice to meet you.” 

You grip it tight, delivering a firm assertion. “I’m Rowan.” 

The tour isn’t grandiose by any means – the town is just as small as you’d initially guessed – but he does show you some of the more beautiful, secluded spots. A waterfall deep in the shade of a small forest, an enormous cherry blossom tree that gently rustles with the late spring breeze - 

You’d be utterly charmed by the clerk if this weren't a funny little facsimile of a dalliance. He lets his hand brush against yours as you walk, but you never take the initiative to twine hands together. 

Would this be your life, if you’d never left with Law? If you hadn’t taken one look at the Tang and fallen in love with the beast of a machine? Slowly meandering down forest paths, talking about nothing in particular, the heat of an afternoon sun beating on your shoulders. It’s idyllic and you find yourself wanting for it briefly, wishing for nothing but a small cottage oceanside that you might use for fishing and building, the safety of a guaranteed existence with no threat of murder, no threat of execution lingering over your head. 

“Rowan?” he asks, soft and curious. You turn to face him fully, his lip caught between teeth, brown eyes wide. He’s the very picture of innocence, sweet and shy and naïve. 

“What’s it like, being a pirate?” 

The question stuns you for a moment. What _is_ it like? 

Late nights working on the only thing keeping your crew alive, grins of relief after everyone’s still standing following a Marine attack. The feeling of standing on deck in a monsoon, listening to Law shouting out instructions over the din of thunder and pelting rain. Waking up in the library with a blanket tucked into your shoulders, hunched over mechanical manuals that could mean the difference between routine maintenance and discovering a serious issue. 

The feeling of a family that understands you and wants to see you thrive because you love them enough to want the same for them. 

It’s also the nights mopping up blood in the surgical ward, the days spent in doldrums when the only thing you want to do is wring everyone’s neck. The fights that leave you beaten, bloodied, near dead. The mourning after a crew member falls in the line of duty. It’s how when you see Law, slumped over his desk in the dead of night, you move him to his bed and make sure he’s sound asleep before you leave. 

It’s crew. It's _family_. 

You smile thinly. “It’s nice.” 

The rest isn’t meant for outsiders to hear. Not with the way your heart beats alongside them in a thunderous roar of blood and _choice_ , not with how you’ve seen the crew screaming, crying, celebrating. It’s not meant for wide-eyed shop clerks with passing crushes. 

The island is beautiful, idyllic. It would be a lovely place to come back to, after the end. 

You turn back to the ship and start walking home. 

Law finds you in the library that night, curled into your favorite chair as you skim through another medical textbook. “You went off on your own today.” he says, and it’s more a demand for information than a statement. 

You meet his gaze coolly. “I did.” 

The thin line of his mouth downturns, his brows knitting together. “You should have taken someone with you.” Law hesitates before sitting down in the chair adjacent to you, an arm’s length away. “Who were you with?” It’s actually a question now, you can tell. No demands, just curiosity. 

“Shop clerk, some kid.” You think back to the hasty kiss he’d tried to place on your cheek, his own burning a bright red. “I think he was interested,” you murmur into your hand. Law’s frown deepens. 

“No leaving without someone.” Law hisses. You slowly turn your gaze to him - his eyes are narrowed, unblinking. “No leaving without _me_.” he amends quickly, and you quirk a brow. 

“Is that an order, Captain?” you sneer. It comes out colder than you expect, annoyance bubbling up into your throat. “He was a child and nothing happened. I was fine.” 

“He was strong enough to load the supplies on the ship, he would have been strong enough to hurt you, Rowan-ya.” 

You scoff. “Law, you’re being ridiculous -” 

“You _just_ got done being in the sick bay -” 

“I’m not a goddamn child, you can’t control what the hell I do -” 

“No, but I am your _Captain_ -” 

“Does my Captain need to know where I am every second of every fucking day?” 

“Yes!” You're both standing before you fully realize, voices loud enough that they carry in the empty library. You've never been quite so angry and for the life of you it's hard to realize _why_ with Law staring you down, lips pulled back in a harsh snarl.

“Why on -” you cut yourself off, trying to calm down, “why the hell do you care so much, _Law._ _”_ You jab a finger into his chest, spitting his name like a curse. “I am _more than capable_ of taking care of myself and you have no _right_ to involve yourself in my personal _fucking_ relationships _.”_

You inch closer, glaring up at him. “You don’t get a say in what the fuck I do in my downtime. If I wanna go fuck a shop clerk, I will. If I get drunk, it’s none of your business. If I have a fucking cigarette – which I _can’t_ , because you _stole my fucking pack_ \- I will.” You grip him by the collar, pull him down half a foot to your level. “You’re not my goddamn -” you flush, “You’re not my _lover_ , Law. You have no right.” 

He looks stunned, flushed. “I’m your Captain, Rowan-ya.” Law takes a deep breath, the exhale catching you by surprise. You’re closer than you’d intended to get – the ire coursing through your veins suddenly mollified by his somber expression. “It’s my responsibility to take care of you.” His lays a hand gently on your arm, running a thumb along your exposed bicep. “Rowan-ya, I can’t -” he sighs, leaning forward ever so slightly. “I can’t let you get hurt like that again.” 

“Captain?” you whisper. His nose brushes against yours and you can feel your heartbeat thud wildly against your rib cage. 

“ _Law_.” you breathe. The exhale fans out against his lips and he looks so intent, so serious - 

“Captain!” 

The two of you jolt away like you’ve been burned, you quickly busying yourself with the textbook you’d been reading, Law stalking towards the library entry with purpose. 

“Yes, Bepo.” He’s suddenly so collected, the thought making you swallow reflexively. 

Bepo glances between you two, bashful. “Oh, sorry.” He pauses, as though unsure how to continue. “The log pose updated, we’re ready to set off.” 

A few of the island’s inhabitants see you off, waving from the pier – the arms merchant that Jean Bart and Bepo had nearly cleaned out, a waitress from the tavern that Shachi and Ikkaku had frequented in their downtime. The shop clerk that had taken you on a walk, his cheeks flushed as he asked you about your crew and what sailing the Grand Line was like. 

You offer him a small, curt wave. The brilliance of his returned smile stays with you for a while after that. 

Things fall back into normalcy quickly enough. Days are spent performing routine maintenance on the medical wards, nights are for researching, learning - 

_Avoiding_ , really. You haven’t set foot in the library in weeks, hoping that it keeps you away from your Captain, away from...whatever the hell had almost happened between the two of you. 

He’d looked at you like he’d owned you and you – well, you _didn't mind all that much._ Nights spent late in your room have you pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes, willing away the image of a parted mouth, half-lidded eyes. It didn’t mean anything. Law didn’t feel that way, it was just. He was _confused_ or something. He couldn’t feel that way about you – hell, you piss him off often enough that he keeps threatening to toss you overboard, kick you off the ship. 

More than that, you’re _just a fucking mechanic_. Law’s a former Warlord, his combat capabilities so far beyond what you can even fathom that it makes you dizzy thinking about it. 

Even though you’ve seen him making shitty jokes with his crew mates, even though you’ve been the one to gently carry him to bed whenever he passes out in the library, this is. 

It’s beyond reason. 

The _Quarterly Journal on Mechanics and Applied Mathematics_ swims before your eyes and you yawn, glancing over at the port window opposite the door to your room. The Tang has been underwater for the better part of two weeks now, nearing the end of how comfortable the crew finds itself in tight quarters with recycled air. You don’t mind it yourself – it's incredible, the amount of technology that’s wrapped up neatly inside of the metal walls of the Tang. 

Even if it weren’t a submarine, it’s also a genuine hospital with working equipment that you preside over with glee. She’s an absolute miracle of a ship and you’ll be damned if anything gets in between you and her mechanics. You won’t - 

You won't let that happen, even if it means denying yourself what you want in the end. 

You rest your eyes for just a moment, dropping your head into the journal laid across your desk. The candle flickering nearby sputters and goes out. A blue film envelopes the room just as you start to snore lightly. 

The last thing you feel before you fall asleep is a hesitant hand placing a blanket over your shoulders. 


	3. polar tang, we have a problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> miscommunication is key to a short, tension filled life

The Tang is structured in such a way that rooms branch off of a main pathway that circles around the ship, with two separate stairways leading to the upper and lower floors. The circularity of the submarine becomes a little maddening after being submerged for the past month and a half, but it does lend itself to the ease by which you deftly maneuver around and subsequently ignore your Captain. 

Not like you’re really trying to ignore him, just...delay the inevitable conversation that grows more necessary with every ducked glance and quick scurry away from the tall, annoyed man. 

It’s incredibly evident how he feels about your avoidant behavior – Law's gone so far as to send other crew members to hunt you down when he needs to talk, but you’ve managed to immerse yourself in the construction of the Tang’s new engine so completely that you’ve found it easy to just mumble assent and then never follow up. The work is demanding, of course; you’re building up an engine from scratch, how could it _not_ be. 

After a solid two weeks of circling each other like predator and prey, Ikkaku is sent to hunt you down as you pore over the blueprints you’ve drawn up for the new engine design. 

“So,” she starts, hands on her hips. You sigh heavily. “You’ve been avoiding the Captain?” 

She frames it like a question, but you know it’s more of a demand. Ikkaku doesn’t so much ask as she needles information out of you with a smile and a wink and right now, you’d honestly rather not deal with the whole situation. 

You let your head fall onto the blueprints with a low thud. “Ikkaku.” you mumble against the paper, low and despondent. “I really don’t wanna talk about this.” 

She pokes your side sharply, nails jabbing into the thin fabric of your tank top. You groan in response, unmoving. 

“It’s pretty obvious how much you don’t want to talk about it, Rowan. You haven’t left the engine room unless the Captain tries to swing by and talk to you.” Ikkaku levels a glare at you that makes you shift in your seat, embarrassed. She takes her own seat adjacent to you, leaning her elbows on the small drafting table you’ve set up. “What the hell even happened? Bepo knows, but he’s not telling anyone. You clam up every time the Captain is mentioned, and god knows no one wants to talk to him when he’s,” she gesticulates wildly with a prim, manicured hand, “like _this_.” 

She sighs, then, and you glance over to see her perfectionist façade crumble a touch under the situation. “I’m not even the best person to talk to, probably. God knows you really only talk to Penguin and Shachi.” 

It hurts even though you think she doesn’t mean for it to, her face falling a little when the heartbreak is clear on your own. 

“God, I’m so sorry.” You sit up fully and face her, taking her hands in your own. “I’m really sorry, I’m just.” you stumble over your words a little, “I’m not the best at talking to people if it’s not mechanic shit and you never seemed interested and I'm just so _sorry_ , Ikkaku.” 

She smiles a little at your outburst, thin and wobbly, and you get the horrible feeling she’s about to cry. 

“Listen, I'll teach you to shoot. You teach me some basic mechanic _shit._ ” Her lower lip wobbles, stiffens, and she smiles devilishly. “And you tell me what the hell is happening between you and the Captain.” 

You have the sudden, terrifying realization that you’ve played right into her hand. 

“I’ll...think about it.” It’s as close to an admission that something’s happening as you’ve gotten in the past few weeks, and it’ll take a lot more to eke anything more out of you. Ikkaku smiles beatifically, drumming her nails on the drafting desk. 

“Wonderful.” Her hard smile softens just so, and she points at the blueprint. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on with this?” 

Training with Ikkaku goes about as smoothly as shooting can in an enclosed, underwater death trap. You pick up the gist of it fairly easy (line up the sights at the fore and aft, hold steady, breathe out, and _pull_ ) but the feeling of holding something in your hands than can whisk away life so easily unnerves you at best. It’s not like the engine, not like how you _prevent_ the death of your crew by fixing and maintaining and spotting problems before they arise. This is something that was designed intentionally to cause death by virtue of being held and utilized, and the thought makes you more than a little uneasy. 

Ikkaku is miraculous with a gun, of course. Her dual duties as the sharpshooter and ‘oral hygienist’ for the crew make her a terrifying woman to approach normally – there's something about the slow curl of a smile when she’s in the crow’s nest, defending her crew, that’s far too similar to when she’s doing biannual checkups on the crew with her tools lodged deep in their mouths. 

The shooting goes well, at any rate, and you find yourself capable, if reluctant. 

“I prefer my wrench.” you mumble aloud as she’s taking you through the steps necessary to disassemble and clean the flintlock pistol you’ve been handling. 

Ikkaku laughs, bright and carefree, and you grumble something lowly about hating guns. She allows you that moment of annoyance before speaking aloud, haughty and proud and _right_ , that’s why you didn’t talk to her often. 

“Guns are better, darling. You’ll get all up and close with your little monkey wrench and have a sword through your gut before you can say ‘fluid dynamics’.” 

“At least with a wrench I know it’s not gonna break if I load it wrong. Because I can’t _load a wrench_.” 

She laughs at you again, but this time it’s a little harsher, devolving into giggles and one particularly loud snort. “No, but you’ll die quicker, or get hurt, and god knows the Captain was in a tizzy when you burned your hands. It’s best if you learn guns so we don’t have to deal with him _brooding_ over you, sweetheart.” 

You flush, look askance. “He was just mad at me,” you rationalize, and she grips at your chin to turn your head towards her hard, unyielding gaze. 

“Oh, _sweetie."_ A moment passes and she lets go, seemingly satisfied with the situation. You blink and scrunch up your nose, confused. 

“No one goes on a tear like he did just because they’re _mad_.” 

Two full months submerged as of today, and the crew’s feeling the cramped spaces of the Tang even more now. Law still hasn’t given the order to surface – probably won’t, given that he needs to talk to you to ensure the engine is properly ready for the strain and with how he’s finally settled into his room and refused to leave for the past week and a half. 

You’re glad, except you’re _really_ not. 

Settling into your new routine of adding notes to your blueprints and tinkering until you’re either pleased with the design or you’ve passed out from exhaustion means that you’ve given the situation some thought in your downtime, in the small moments between wakefulness and the rest of your day. The fact is thus: Law had _maybe_ intended to kiss you before you were interrupted by Bepo that night. You fully believe that he’d just been caught up in the emotion of the moment – he'd once had a fairly solid reputation for sleeping around, even if you’d never seen him do so. It’s understandable that he’d fall to base desires in the heat of the moment. 

It makes less sense that he’d want that with you, of all people. Or any of his crewmates, to be precise. He’s always been a reserved, well calculated man, and this seems like too much of a risk to even consider going through with. 

If you were Captain, you’d never consider it for a second. Too much of being on a pirate crew demands unflinching trust and loyalty and bringing relationships into the mix always had the possibility to unravel those close bonds. 

Another fact to consider: you probably would have let Law kiss you. 

You know what that means, you’ve known ever since he _smiled_ at you and you felt your heart skip a beat like some sort of fucking fairy tale – the rest of the room fading out until it’s just the two of you, fireworks going off in your chest, the whole shebang. 

It’s - 

It’s _terrifying_. 

You like him, that much is evident. You refuse to let yourself think of it as anything deeper than a small infatuation, the tiniest of crushes. 

Thoughts whirl in your mind, flicking to the forefront of your brain like a rolodex flipping around at mach ten. Heaving a sigh, you sit up fully in your bed and prepare to face the day. 

“You want me to cut your hair?” 

Jean Bart looks surprised, bemused. You stare up at him with an uneven smile. 

“It gets in the way too much and I keep losing my hair ties.” That’s half of it, but you won’t bring up the desire to have _something_ about you change, the desire to have some modicum of control over your situation. He looks at you appraisingly, arms crossing. 

“I can probably do that.” He takes a moment to size you up against his bulk and pales a little. “Actually, are you sure about this?” 

You hop up on the cafeteria table, feet on the bench. “You’ve got the steadiest hands on the Tang, c’mon.” 

He chuckles at that. “Pretty sure that’s Ikkaku, not me.” He scratches at his head briefly, considering. “But I get why you wouldn’t go to her. She’s a bit of a handful.” Jean Bart sounds wistful, almost, and you cock your head to the side. 

“Ooh, is that _affection_ I hear? Affection for a fellow crew member?” The shit eating grin on your face belies the flutter of nerves in your gut. The flush on his face is all the response you need and you _cackle_. 

“Shut up or I’ll give you a bowl cut.” He’s trying so hard to sound menacing, but he sounds more put out than anything. 

“Hair grows back, I don’t give a shit. I just can’t hold the scissors proper right now. And hey, I'd probably miss a spot anyways.” It’s all the convincing he needs before jerking his head for you to follow him to the med bay. 

You catch a glimpse of Law on your way there, your eyes meeting just long enough that you burn a bright red and duck your head askance. You miss the softening of his normally hard gaze, how he makes an abortive movement towards you before hanging his head and walking off. 

Your heart’s still pounding when Jean Bart ducks under the door frame and gestures at the stool in the middle of the room. He pulls a pair of medical scissors from a nearby drawer and drapes one of the bed’s blankets over your shoulders, tucking it tight against your neck. 

“So,” he murmurs, and you groan aloud. He almost laughs, hiding it behind the meat of his hand, and starts to piece apart your hair into separate strands. The scissors make a clean _shnk_ with every cut, the weight of hair down to the small of your back falling in neat piles on the floor. He pauses briefly, cursing. “Shit, sorry. How long did you want it?” 

The long strands of hair on the floor makes you burst into a stuttering, gasping laugh. “Shit, Jean.” You wipe at your eyes, grinning wide. “Sides short, top a little longer?” You think back to the last group of marines you’d fought, the young woman you’d crossed blades with (or rather, you with a wrench, her with a glorious hand and a half sword you still think about daily). She’d had her sides shaved short, little tufts of hair spurting from her ears and a massive braid from the top of her head whipping around in the heat of battle. 

It had looked like too much maintenance but after knocking her out and leaning down to inspect it a little closer, you liked the thought of it. 

Jean Bart merely nods and resumes cutting, hacking away at a decade’s worth of hair. 

A few moments pass, the silence only broken by the soft _shnk_ and gentle fall of hair. 

“So,” he repeats, and your answering groan is even louder this time, somehow. He laughs outright, shoulders shaking with the movement. 

“You’re not getting out of this, kiddo.” 

You bristle at the term, pouting spectacularly. “Why is everyone asking me about this?” 

He hums under his breath. “Because it’s affecting all of us, you know.” 

_Oh_. 

You hadn't thought about that. 

“What’s going on between you two?” It’s level, encouraging, and you almost want to tell him everything. Ever since his joining in Sabaody he’s been the mediator of the Tang – easily because he’s the largest of the crew physically, but also because he’s patient and kind and he genuinely _cares_. Not that Ikkaku doesn’t, or Penguin or Shachi or even Bepo, but - 

Another strand of hair falls. You close your eyes. 

“I, uh.” You’re talking before you can convince yourself to stop, throat thick with anxiety. “I think I like him.” 

Jean Bart’s answering hum is soft and understanding. You swallow and try to remain as still as possible as he gently pries hair from behind your ears. 

“He tried to kiss me, I think?” 

It sounds like a question. He freezes with his hands hovering just above your head, a soft, “Huh.” his only response. 

Another _shnk_. More hair falls. The tension in your shoulders has you shaking, just enough that he has to gently hold you in place. 

“Would that,” he ventures slowly, “would that have been a bad thing?” 

The question makes you stop breathing for a moment, long enough that two more cuts lift the slightest weight off of your shoulders. Would it be a terrible thing, if it had happened? If Bepo had never stopped the two of you? 

What would that have looked like? 

You flush a deep, ruddy scarlet. Jean Bart snorts out a laugh and sets down the scissors, rummaging around for a pair of clippers. They start to buzz lightly in his grip after he snaps on the proper guide comb, moving against the side of your head with intent. 

It’s relaxing, honestly, feeling the buzz reverberate through your skull. Less relaxing is how he asks you, “Well, would it?” as though he expects a coherent, honest answer. 

“God, I don’t know.” you eventually respond. You’re more than a little proud that you’re honest about it, ultimately. It’s more your speed to bottle things up, deal with them years down the road. You wouldn’t even be having this conversation if you weren’t basically pinned down by virtue of requesting Jean Bart’s help. 

Though, you have to admit – talking about it is...nice, in a way. With every swipe of the clippers against your head, more hair falls to the floor. 

Jean Bart stops the clippers, sets them aside. He ruffles your newly shorn hair, dislodging any loose bits of hair left behind. 

“Just think about it.” he says. You find yourself nodding as he removes the blanket draped around you, shaking it a touch so that the hair collected on it joins the mess on the floor. “I might go so far as to think that he’s in the same predicament as you.” 

The thought gives you pause as you stand from the stool and step over the mass of hair. “Jean Bart-” you sigh. “Please don’t.” 

He rests a large hand on your shoulder, squeezing once before letting go. “Give it some thought.” 

You’ve cleared out the majority of the junk from the engine room into an adjacent storage room and scrubbed down the walls and floor as best you can in anticipation for the final build of your engine design. It’s larger than the previous, but better suited for the strange position the current engine stands, and honestly - 

Anything’s better than that death trap, really. 

And when you’re done replacing it, you can tear it apart and study it to your heart’s content, maybe even find a maker’s mark nestled deep in the confines of the labyrinthine metal. It’d help to understand just who was behind the Frankenstein engine, maybe you could even convince Law to hunt - 

You shake your head, straightening out the blueprints on your desk. You just have to put it together and test it while it’s hooked up to the Tang itself. Not that it really needed the testing – you’re confident enough in your abilities and honestly, you’re no stranger to building engines out of scrap. Of course, you’ll have to get permission for the Tang to ascend, which means finding Law first - 

You slam both hands on the desk. 

“Just stop _thinking_ about him.” you mutter under your breath. 

Someone knocks on the engine door. 

No one ever knocks. Granted, the door is almost never closed, but you’ve kept it shut for the past few weeks out of spite and self-interest. 

You stride over to the door with intent, mouth curled into a snarl, and open the door. 

“We need to talk.” Law says, and it’s not really a demand, for once. The ire in your blood fizzes out in an instant, leaving you cold and numb. 

He doesn’t move from his position in the door’s entryway, doesn’t shoulder past you into your domain. Law just stands there, hands bereft of Kikoku twisting in on each other slowly, methodically. 

He’s _waiting_ , you realize, and jump back to let him in. He takes long, careful strides, stopping just next to your blueprints. There’s a flash of a small, sad smile when he realizes just what they are. 

“We’ll be docking at our next island in three days.” he says. You haven’t moved from the door, haven’t even fully turned to look at him – your heart beats faintly in your chest and you’re struck by how much you’ve _missed_ him. 

“You can leave then.” 

The words hit you slowly, like ice traveling the length of your body lazily until you’re freezing cold, gasping. 

“What?” 

He doesn’t look at you. 

“The log pose updates in an hour on the next island. You can leave while we secure supplies.” 

You don’t. 

You don’t _understand_. 

“Law, what.” you swallow, throat dry. You still haven’t turned to look at him. “What do you mean.” 

“You don’t want to be here anymore.” he intones flatly. You narrow your eyes. 

“What the fuck are you _saying_ , Law.” 

He turns to look at you fully now, expression blank and unyielding. “You’ve-” he stops himself, licks his lips. “You’ve made it clear, Rowan-ya.” 

Anger replaces the cold fear nestled deep against your spine quick enough that you find yourself stalking towards him, finger pointing accusatorially. “What the fuck have I made clear? We haven’t even talked lately -” You let out a shuddering breath, rage let out with the exhale. “We haven’t talked lately.” you realize. 

“Law, do you think I _want_ to leave?” You take another step towards him, slow and measured. 

He’s stiff as a board, looking everywhere but your face. He looks _lost_. 

“I don’t want to leave.” The admission takes more out of you than you thought it would, but the tightness of your heart abates just a bit. “I never want to leave, Law, I love the Tang, I love being here, I love working on the engine every day and,” you suck in a sharp, harsh breath, “I can’t imagine being anywhere but here, after everything we’ve been through.” 

You want to reach out and draw him close – looking at him fully shows just how he’s been coping. The bags under his eyes are practically bruised black and purple, his pupils darting around, unfocused. He looks ready to collapse at any given moment, and you hate yourself for not noticing sooner, for not bothering to check up on him. 

Even with your hesitation to be around him the two of you were something like friends, right? 

You reach out and pull him into a rough embrace. “I’m sorry I made you think that, Law.” 

He makes a strangled sort of noise in the back of his throat, his arms jerking a little as he slowly hugs you back. This is more than you could have ever hoped for, really. This is enough. 

A minute passes with your head buried in his chest, his hands cradling the back of your neck. You start to think things will be okay after all. Law lets out a heady, shuddering breath. 

A klaxon sounds and Law cries out in frustration, grip tightening around you. You’re reluctant to let go yourself, face flushed a deep scarlet. “Later?” you murmur into his chest, soft and questioning. Law nods against the crown of your head, pressing into you a moment longer before he lets go, clearing his throat. He still looks a mess, exhaustion clear in the way he slouches, the bags under his eyes, but there’s something akin to hope in his eyes that makes him more present, less dissociative. 

“Later, then.” you repeat. There’s still more to talk about, there’s still more to explore and think on and maybe, _maybe_ \- 

You feel lighter than you have in weeks. Law looks the happiest you’ve seen him since the library nearly two months past. The klaxon continues, earsplitting and insistent, but it seems more like a faint white noise when you’re staring up into Law’s silver eyes. 

His lips part and he glances down at your own. “Later.” he concedes, breathless. 

You take a step back, nodding. Law follows your movement like he intends to wrap you up in his arms again and the thought makes you grin uncontrollably. 

The klaxon ends abruptly, replaced by Bepo’s voice crackling over the intercom. “ _SEA KING SPOTTED OFF THE PORT SIDE, APPROACHING FAST_.” 

Law jumps into action, motioning for you to take up the PA and respond as he summons a Room, Kikoku appearing in his hands. You pat the engine as you pass, snagging up the microphone and announcing the submarine’s ascension. 

Bepo must react accordingly because the low swooping in your gut from the sub’s movement intensifies, walking made more difficult by the strength of gravity dragging you down. Law’s unaffected, as usual – stoic and stony faced as he walks up next to you, his hand covering yours when he gently pulls the microphone closer to himself. 

“When we surface, I want everyone to remain below deck. I’ll take care of the sea king.” 

His hand squeezes yours once, deliberate and warm, as he drags it along to place the microphone back in its stand. Law leans close, all but pinning you against the control panel. 

“Stay here.” he commands. You swallow and nod, trying to attribute the restlessness in your stomach to the Tang’s ascension. A second later she erupts from the swell of the ocean with enough force that you’re thrown into Law, hands pressing against the flat of his chest so you can maintain some stability. 

He smirks, but it’s flushed and a little softer than usual. 

With a quick, “ _Room."_ he’s gone, leaving you alone in the engine room as the engine starts to sputter from the effort of a lightning quick ascension from the depths of the ocean. You fall into a mindless maintenance mode, checking over the engine’s output, thoughts a million miles away. 

_Later_. 

You bite your lip, a little giddy. 

The battle with the sea king lasts maybe a full minute before Law opens the hatch to below deck, covered in blood. You’re waiting at the stairwell, your quick check of the engine yielding nothing too immediate for concern. Instead, you watch him amble down a few steps, yank the hatch closed, and stumble on his next footfall. 

You’re at his side in a flash, frowning when you grab at his waist and he _winces_. One of the nurses (Hiro, you think absently) rushes forward, checking him over and tutting when they prod at a large gash near his hip. 

“You _idiot_.” you seethe. Law doesn’t respond. 

Something heavy and uneasy settles low in your gut. “Law?” 

Still no response, you shift his weight back and his head lolls with the movement. He’s out cold. 

Hiro yells down the corridor and the surgical team appears out of nowhere, masks donned and hands gloved. You’d be surprised at their haste were it not for the fact that they were nearly always ready for something like this, working in shifts to ensure that someone always had care, no matter what. 

The fact that it’s Law needing care makes your stomach do flips, nausea roiling in your throat. You hand him off carefully, walking alongside the surgical team after they’ve placed him on a gurney, rolling him down to the examination room. The woman rolling the gurney is stopped briefly so they can remove the tatters of his shirt, and - 

The damage is so much worse than you thought. 

Bruises mar his skin alongside a ring of puncture marks wide enough to give you an idea of the size of the sea king. The cut on his hip is deeper than you’d anticipated, matched by an equally dangerous looking wound curving around his shoulder. One of the surgeons mutters something about the wounds not matching up to his comatose state, and you think back to the bruises under his eyes and the way he’d staggered into the engine room. 

“Exhaustion,” you blurt out. The surgeon (Naomi? You’re not as familiar with them as you should be, considering) glances between you and Law, calculating. 

“When was the last time he slept?” she asks you. You bristle a bit, you’re not his _keeper_. 

“I’m not sure,” you respond, “I haven’t. We haven’t talked much lately.” 

You immediately regret the information you give freely - it’s not her place to know these things, this is between you and Law. Naomi gives you a discerning look, brows drawn together. 

“Find Bepo, then.” She’s shorter with you than you’d like, personally, but you understand. Law’s your Captain, after all, he’s the only reason you’re all together. He’s the reason for the Heart Pirates, the Tang, _everything_. 

Mollified, you take off towards the navigation room in a deft sprint, shouldering past the few people peeking out of their respective stations to oversee the commotion. The PA crackles to life, Penguin hurriedly explaining the situation in as brief a message as he can. 

“ _Captain’s hurt, undergoing surgery. We’re stationary until we know his condition. I’ll update when I can._ ” 

Rounding the corner, you run full tilt into Bepo, the impact knocking you off to the side as he squawks in surprise. You hit the wall, sliding down with a grunt of pain, and wheeze out, “Law needs you, surgery bay.” 

There’s a pause where he looks between you and the helm, conflicted. 

“I’ll take the damn helm!” you yell, “Go help with Law!” 

Bepo dashes down the cramped hallway as quick as he can, out of sight in seconds. It takes you a bit to sit up from where you’ve hit the wall, head throbbing in a way that’s sickly familiar. You reach up to palm at the back of your head as you start to stand, wincing when your fingertips come back bloody. 

“ _Fuck_.” 

You wobble towards the helm, feet unsteady from the impact against the wall, and take the few steps needed to wrap your hands around the wheel. It holds steady in your grasp, unmoving despite the choppy waves you can see through the port windows all around you. 

There’s no - 

You should be by his side, not manning a helm on a stationary ship. The Tang can handle itself, you don’t - 

There’s always the possibility of more sea kings. Where one falls, more are quick to follow. Marines are an issue too in this part of the New World. Not to mention pirates, the Yonko, other innumerable beasts. 

You’re fulfilling your duty by remaining here, at the helm. Awaiting directions from Penguin or Bepo or Law. 

All you can do is wait. 

It takes Law a full two days to wake up, despite his injuries. You spend the first of them at the helm, fighting sleep and the desire to pass out on the floor as blood mats in your hair, coagulates on your neck. Bepo eventually comes to relieve you from your position well into the night, incognizant of your own injuries. 

Granted, you wouldn’t tell him regardless. He’d only been trying to help his Captain; it wasn’t his fault he was an eight-foot tall polar bear with a mass that rivaled Jean Bart’s. Really, you were the one running like a bat out of hell and ignoring your surroundings to make it to Bepo quicker. 

It was fine, really. 

You retire to your room after Bepo relieves you from the helm, taking a shower as daintily as you can so as to avoid exacerbating your injuries. 

You’re so tired. Leaning your head against the shower tiles, you watch small rivulets of pink wind down the drain. You’ve been awake for almost a day and a half now, exhaustion nestled deep in your bones, in your lungs. It hurts to _breathe._

You resolve to kick Law’s ass if he ever gets this hurt again. 

You’re not really a beacon of self-care - what with the drinking, the smoking, the working until you pass out – but you’ll be damned if Law doesn’t at least catch a fucking nap after this. 

_Fuck_ , you want a cigarette. 

It takes another half hour for you to leave the shower, dabbing at your head with your towel and frowning when it comes away redder than you were hoping for. You slide on a spare pair of sweatpants, noticing belatedly that they’re Law’s, that you’d never really given them back after stealing them months ago. 

You brush fingers against the wound at the back of your head again. It’s not leaking blood as voraciously as it had when you were at the helm, but - 

Well, it’s still not good. 

Thinking about the wound leads you to thinking about the medical textbooks Law gave you when you were in the hospital; how they’d detailed what concussion symptoms looked like, what could happen if left untreated. 

You shouldn’t sleep, you know that much. 

Has everything always been this distracting? 

You try holding on to thoughts of Law and his condition. You try to think about the engine design you’re ready to assemble. How Law had been so angry when you had burned your hands and hadn’t been treated for hours. 

It takes just about everything you have in you, but you leave your room and amble down the hallway to the medical bay. 

You’re at his side when he does wake up, head freshly bandaged and Shachi only feet away to keep an eye on you. Law’s eyes slowly blink open, brows drawn tightly together. 

“Rowan-ya?” 

His voice snaps you out of the reverie you find yourself in, head tucked into your chest as you try not to doze off. You jump in your seat, lean forward to take his hand. 

Shachi politely excuses himself from the room. 

“Law, how do you feel?” 

He laughs and it comes out hoarse and scratchy. “Like I nearly got eaten by a fucking sea king.” 

You thump him lightly on the chest, away from any visible injuries. He groans a little in return, huffing out a broken chuckle. 

“You’re an idiot.” you murmur, ducking your head to brush lips against his hand. The flush of scarlet that overtakes him is immediate and _fascinating._ You pause, lift just enough to pull away and scrutinize his expression, then duck back down to press another kiss to the back of his hand. 

He swallows. “Rowan-ya,” He looks conflicted, young without his hat obscuring his eyes. The span of his chest is wrapped neatly with bandages, an IV threaded carefully into the crook of his other arm. 

You might be a little in love with him. 

You might be avoiding thinking about that as much as possible, while still being there for him and treading whatever _this_ is as carefully as you can. 

It’s a knife’s edge you’re not used to walking, scalpel sharp and full of promise. 

“I’m glad you’re okay.” It’s honest and open in a way you’ve never really been with anyone before. Sure, Jean Bart had the persuasive wherewithal to get you to _talk_ , but addressing Law like this? Being up front about things, even if this is just the start of that? 

Your heart squeezes painfully in your chest. 

Law closes his eyes and leans back. “I think I needed the sleep,” he eventually responds, and you snort. 

“No shit, Captain.” 

The look he gives you in return is scathing, but his lips quirk up into a small smile that’s quickly becoming familiar to you. “Thought I told you to call me Law.” he murmurs. 

Your fingers twitch in his hand. You could _really_ use a cigarette right now, something to distract you from the soft looks he keeps giving you, something to distract from how warm and alive he feels in your hands. 

His hand dwarfs the both of yours. You try not to think about that too hard. 

You’re running your thumb over his tattoo, fixated on the swirl of black etched into his skin. He sucks in a sharp breath, coughing when it proves too much for his lungs. There’s a sharp knock on the door and you start to untangle your fingers, but Law holds tight, squeezing. 

“Captain,” The nurse that had called for the surgeon team, Hiro, stands in the doorway expectantly. You try to pull away again, face flushed, and Law lets you go with a soft sigh. 

“Captain, a report on the injuries suffered during and after the battle with the sea king.” Hiro stands tall and proud in their jumpsuit, saluting Law like he’s a commander. Law waves off the gesture and Hiro relaxes a touch, a product of the marines they were once part of. “You had thirteen separate puncture wounds running alongside the front and back of your left abdomen, a large cut just above your left hipbone, and a similarly large cut running the length of your right shoulder.” Hiro pauses for a second to catch their breath. Law looks pained. “Furthermore, while the injuries themselves weren’t as serious as we were led to believe initially, you passed out from a lack of sleep and nutrition.” 

Hiro’s eyes go hard and they frown. “Captain, we understand that you aren’t beholden to the same schedule and requirements as the rest of us,” They take a step into the room, towards the both of you. “but given that you’re the one that put them forth for the _betterment of your crew_ , I demand, as your nurse, that you start following them as well.” 

Hiro levels their gaze onto you and you straighten minutely. “And _you_ ,” they hiss. “The next time you’re injured, you come to the med bay immediately. I understand the necessity of the situation, but you had a _concussion_.” 

You wince, refusing to look at Law. You were hoping Hiro wouldn’t mention that in front of him. 

Law perks up in his bed, sitting up as much as he can despite his injuries. “You what.” he intones dryly, and you drop your head in your hands. 

“Law, you’re the one in the hospital bed right now.” 

“You had a _concussion_?” 

Hiro wisely leaves the room, their piece said. 

“Law, it’s _fine_ , really.” 

He tries to turn to face you fully, losing when he twitches and falls back on the sheets. 

“We aren’t done talking about this,” he wheezes. 

You smile, patting his hand with yours amicably. “Just add it to the damn list, I guess.” 

The Tang docks at a winter island just before a blizzard hits and snows you in during your excursion with Bepo and Law. Bepo’s absolutely _thrilled_ , running about in the snow and having an absolute blast as you and Law try to shoulder your way to the inn just up the road. He’s still recovering, having woken up from his injuries only a day prior, but the crew’s reluctance to chastise their captain comes with the benefit of letting him do as he pleases. 

You still have the niggling feeling he’s reopening his wounds from the exertion of the hike, but you’ll address that when you’re both warm and dry. 

You approach the inn quick enough that the worst of the blizzard is yet to come – with the way the locals hurry you inside, it’s almost too close for comfort. Snow dusts both you and Law in a thick covering; his hat has taken the brunt of it, the black spots invisible beneath the delicate flakes, but you’re quickly becoming soaked from the heat of the fireplace a few feet away. Law strides over and rubs your arms with his hands, Kikoku disappearing into the ether with a quick, “ _Room_.” 

“Are you okay?” he asks, uncharacteristically tender. You blink in response. 

“Uh,” you glance about the room, taking in the discerning looks from the locals – what looks to be the proprietor of the inn, two hunters, and another traveler. “I think so,” you whisper to Law. Not for the first time you wish the Heart Pirates had a universal sign language that you could use to communicate silently. 

It’s unsettling, the attention these people pay the three of you. 

Bepo’s silent to Law’s left, just far enough inside that the proprietor can shut the door bodily behind him. She turns to the three of you with a strained smile. 

“We weren’t expecting travelers so late, so I apologize for the inconvenience.” She walks over to the desk and her ledger and makes a quick note that you squint to try and understand. Catching your gaze, her smile falters and she slams the book shut with a thud that reverberates in the silent room. 

“We have one room available.” she states, looking the three of you over. “One bed.” Her good nature returns quick enough, though she keeps an eye on Bepo. 

“Your pet can stay outside.” 

Law _growls_ , summoning and unsheathing Kikoku - 

Bepo stands between him and the ill-mannered woman, bowing deeply. “Sorry,” he starts, and you step forward to give the woman a piece of your mind. He halts you with an outstretched paw. “I don’t mind the snow and cold so much. I’ll head back to the ship.” 

Law carefully sheathes Kikoku again, a hand on Bepo’s arm. His other hand jerks slightly, and you _recognize_ that movement - 

“ _Room_.” 

The woman screams, the hunters leaping to their feet. Notably, the traveler remains seated, watching the situation curiously. Law bisects the woman’s head from her shoulders with a swipe of his hand, catching it easily with the other. Bepo yawns. You’re stifling a smile. 

“Please apologize to my navigator.” Law says, and the relaxed tone belies his annoyance. Bepo leans down so his snout is inches away from the woman, who’s stopped screaming in favor of quick, harsh breaths. 

“I. I’m _terribly_ sorry, sir -” 

Bepo waves her off. “It’s okay.” 

Law frowns a little. “She called you my pet, Bepo.” 

He shrugs in response. “She’s just uneducated. Probably hasn’t seen a mink before.” 

“Fine.” Law reattaches her head with a flick of his fingers, though something seems _slightly_ off. 

Bepo opens the inn door open once more, a flurry of snow spilling into the entryway, and bows to the woman once more. “I apologize for the inconvenience.” he mocks, and you can’t help the stuttered laugh that spills out at her sour expression. Law walks up to her, places more than a few Beri’s down on her desk, and she’s suddenly torn between fear, rage, and accepting the sizable amount of money before her. 

She settles into a wary professionalism, bowing back to Bepo as he leaves and carefully sliding the bills into her apron. She’s frowning when she hands the room key to Law, explaining that, “It’s the third on the right, second floor.” 

You realize as you walk away that her nose is aggressively skewed to the left. 

Law sits on the edge of the bed as soon as you open the door to the room, pulling at his jacket zipper and dropping the thick swath of fabric on the hardwood floor. You close the door behind you and take in the room as he divests the clothing covering his torso – a single bed, as the woman had stated, but also a fireplace and an adjacent bathroom. It’s chilly in the room, the fireplace stocked full but dead to the world, and you set towards starting a fire for the night. 

It doesn’t take long to get a small spark going, coaxed to life by your breath and the small kindling, and you turn to see Law propped up on his elbows, his chest bare but for the bandages, watching your movements. 

“She was an asshole.” you offer. Law breaks out into a grin. 

“Should have swapped her head with the decorations.” 

You laugh, thinking back to the wolf’s head mounted on the wall. “That would have been fuckin’ hilarious.” You start to shed your own layers, thankful for the thickness of your jumpsuit but bemoaning the length – your legs were freezing, soaked from trekking through snow. “I saw what you did, by the way.” You collect the jackets from the floor, soaked through, and lay them flat in front of the fire. Law’s eyes never leave you as you busy yourself. 

Your jumpsuit goes next, unzipped as quickly and efficiently as you can manage without just tearing the damn thing off. You’re left in shorts and a tank top, your normal underwear, and you sit down to rub warmth back into your legs. 

“Are you,” Law starts, then stops. His mouth opens and closes a few times before he begins speaking again. “Do you want a blanket?” 

You nod, not trusting your voice. The fire crackles before the two of you, the only light in the room, and Law leans forward to drape one of the bed’s blankets over your shivering frame. 

His hands linger, familiar. 

It’s been just about an hour now, more so given the trek into town, so the log pose has set fully. Bepo and the Tang are ready to set sail for their next destination. You’re unsure why - 

Law moves from the bed to settle next to you, propping his elbows up on his knees. The faintest splotch of red bleeds out from under one of his bandages – one of the puncture wounds, if you remember right. He doesn’t seem too bothered by it in the low light of the fireplace, the flames illuminating him in flickers that dance over his angular jaw, his silver eyes. 

You look away, after a moment. 

You hear him swallow thickly, taking in a sharp breath. 

“We should talk.” he says, reminiscent of your argument a few days ago. You nod, eyes fixated on the flames before you. 

“We should.” you agree, and silence falls over the room again. 

It’s not that you don’t want to talk – you wouldn’t mind clearing the air of everything, stating where exactly you think you are in relation to what’s happening, but - 

Sometimes the silence is hard to break. 

Your heart thuds heavily in your chest, anxiety settled in the swell of your throat. You’re not sure you could talk right now if you wanted to. By the way Law stares into the fire as well, his shoulders a hard line of tension, you’re not sure he can say anything either. 

Maybe _acting_ instead of talking? Maybe simply resting your head on his shoulder, feeling the weight and warmth of his body, maybe that'll convey the emotions you’re too nervous to express? Maybe - 

“I’m in love with you.” 

It’s decisive, the way he says it. No room for error, no room for miscommunication. 

You turn to look at him with wide, untrusting eyes. He hasn’t stopped looking into the fire, but his face is a brilliant scarlet and he’s biting his lower lip. After a moment with no response, he ducks his head and sighs. 

“Sorry. This isn’t fair to you.” He raises his head to look into the fire again, but he looks pained, devastated. He runs a hand down the length of his face and lets it fall once more, elbow on his knee. 

You swallow and try to speak, but your throat constricts. There’s no way this is happening. 

“Why are you apologizing?” It’s out before you realize you’re the one that spoke, and Law blinks, looks over at you. His gaze catches yours and holds, his mouth parted. 

“I’m,” he starts, soft and quiet. “I’m not sure.” 

It’s so strange, the admission of uncertainty, that you crack a smile regardless of the tension. Law blinks again, huffing out a little, “Huh.” and leans forward to close the distance between you. 

He stops just inches away, eyes open and searching, and you take the plunge. 

His lips are dry, a little chapped from the cold weather, but warm nonetheless. The kiss is soft and brief and everything you’d avoided dreaming about for so long, trying so hard to ignore and shove down and _oh_ \- 

Law threads a hand into your hair and deepens the kiss, slanting his mouth against yours in such a way that you’re dizzy from the implications. You have to part too soon to catch your breath, panting a little into the space between your mouths. 

“Is this,” he groans out, “is this okay?” 

You nod, delving back into another kiss, and he outright _moans_. The hand in your hair tightens to the point of a pleasurable sort of shock and you pull away with the realization. 

“We haven’t fucking talked, Law.” You’re laughing through the sentence, smiling into his cheek when he chuckles in return, kissing your jaw. You shiver a little from the continued attention, pulling away fully and placing your hands on his chest. 

You freeze. The bandages feel moist under your fingertips and you look down. 

“God _damnit_ ,” You’re up in a hurry, reaching into your jacket to find the spare first aid kit you’d brought along for _just this reason_. Law watches you with a smirk, fully aware of the blood collecting under his bandages and simply choosing not to care. 

“Law, I’m gonna fucking _kill_ you -” You drag him up to his feet, glare up at him as he towers over you with a sly little smirk. You whack him lightly on the chest, directly over one of the slowly expanding pools of blood. 

He groans, this time in pain. You shove him down on the bed and straddle his legs, opening the first aid kit and unwinding his chest bandages. 

“There you go,” you mutter as he goes limp, compliant. “That’s a good boy.” 

Something dark flashes in his eyes and Law bites his lip a little, swallows. You quirk a brow at his reaction, file it away for later. 

For now, you methodically clean the wound and check his sutures, pleased with the level of excellence in his crew. When he’s finally agreed to sleeping for the night, you wrap clean bandages around his torso once more, closing the first aid kit and settling into the bed beside him. 

A slow, easy sort of silence falls between you. Law watches you with a half-lidded, lazy gaze. 

“I think I’m in love with you too,” you whisper after a bit, when the fire’s died down enough that the insistent crackle is white noise. Despite everything, he goes bright red once more. 

“I avoided you because I thought you didn’t,” you stop, collect your thoughts. “I thought you couldn’t want me back, you know?” 

He reaches over, starts to run a thumb over your exposed bicep. 

“I didn’t want anything to come between us that meant I’d have to leave,” you finish, and you’ve never felt so bare, so raw. It’s instinct to brush the feelings off, make a joke, retreat back into the safety of your own mind, but you push through the desire to clam up and force yourself to relax. 

“I’d never make you leave,” Law murmurs, shifting closer until his forehead rests against yours. “Even when I said you could, I didn’t want you to.” 

Your breath catches in your throat. “Oh,” you reply helpfully. Law draws you closer, lets you rest on his arm and wraps the other around your waist. 

You fall asleep like this, in the slow silence of the inn, protected from the blizzard just outside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i worry that i made law a lil too ooc for this but! i absolutely believe he's just. tired and soft and way too touch starved to be healthy. boy needs a nap and some fucking cuddles, stat
> 
> thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! i hope y'all liked it <3


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